


Childhood Trauma

by veritas_st



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 19:30:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veritas_st/pseuds/veritas_st
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of small snippets into their lives, centred around them being apaart and coming back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Childhood Trauma

“You’re an idiot,” Q mutters, then catches his bottom lip between his teeth. James would laugh but it hurts so he answers with two fingers under Q’s chin. Q doesn’t meet his eyes, keeps his gazed fixed on the makeshift stitches on James’s chest. The one’s he did himself, fingers slipping on the needle, slick with blood and whiskey. 

“Q,” one letter, one syllable but it says so much and Q’s fingers still against the stitches, the skin under his eyes creasing as he frowns slightly. James is close enough to see it, to see the slight watery quality to Q’s eyes and he never wants to see that look again. 

“How did you even do these?” Q slides his chin from James’s fingers, “half drunk in front of a broken public toilet mirror?” James raises an eyebrow and even that hurts. “Again…idiot…yes, yes I know it’s your job but do you have to be so damn reckless?” Q’s talking to himself again, answering James’s unasked questions because James never talks when Q’s like this. 

James has been to Medical, gotten himself checked out, even got a clap on the shoulder for the stitches, but nothing’s good enough for Q, not when it comes to James. 

He should put an end to this, to the look on Q’s face whenever James comes back hurt. Which is every time. He should put a stop to the thoughts that go through his own head every time he’s hurt, _must get back to him_. He doesn’t know when the gangly kid with a mop of black curls became centre of his world. 

“I’m…” he starts, chest hurting and voice scratching through his dry throat. Q looks up then and shakes his head. 

“Don’t,” he says, standing finally from his crouching position in between James’s legs. He doesn’t touch James, just steps back and wraps his arms around himself. “Don’t apologise, because that implies that this wont happen again and it will and one day I wont be able to help you,” Q’s voice rises slightly and James shifts, goes to stand but Q’s hand on his shoulder stops him. “Don’t move, just…” Q shakes his head and leaves the room. The mattress creaks beneath James’s weight as he shifts and manages to get himself onto the bed, back against the headboard. Everything hurts, and all he wants is to touch Q. It’s been two months, the longest time they’ve been apart and James is starting to forget what Q’s skin feels like under his hands. 

He’s almost asleep when Q gets back, and perches himself on the edge of the bed. His hands are wrapped around a mug of something steaming and James hopes to god it’s coffee. 

“I’m sorry,” Q’s still looking down at his hands and he slides the mug onto the bedside table. It’s chicken _cup-a-soup_ and James wants to laugh, but it still hurts. “I just…” he shrugs helplessly and James understands. He always understands. He understands when Q doesn’t so much as look up from his computer when James gets back, absently waving at him across the room. He understands when Q turns, sleepily, in James’s arms and presses his lips to James’s neck. He understands when Q’s silent and moody. He understands when Q’s welcomes him back with kisses to every part of skin he can find and a hand down his trousers. James understands every single on of Q’s reactions to him coming home. He gets it. He get’s Q. 

This is the one he hates the most though because there’s guilt under Q’s worry, guilt that Q’s pushing James away by being distant and irritated. Guilt that he could have done something better to keep James from harm. 

He reaches up and again presses two fingers under Q’s chin. This time Q looks at him. 

“Don’t,” he mirrors Q’s words and Q purses his lips, but there’s a smile at the edge of his mouth. 

“Drink that, then you can sleep,” Q nods at the mug and leaves. 

James is asleep before the door even closes. 

…

“Are you incapable of behaving like an adult?” Q’s voice comes over his ear piece and James suppresses a smile.

Another mission, another nameless woman draped over him and Q’s voice in his ear. It should be weird, it should jar them both but it doesn’t. Q was used to it before James backed him up against one abandoned corridor in MI6, ‘I’m going to kiss you, Q, don’t run,’ and kissed him like he’d never get the chance again. 

It surprised James, the first time afterwards, having Q listening to him fucking a woman. But Q’s been surprising him since they first met. 

“It honestly fascinates me. Here you are, grown man, and you behave like a 5 year old most of the time,” Q continues and James leans a little closer to the woman. Q cant see, but James likes to act like he can anyway, like he’s driving Q mad with jealous. “Getting distracted by a pretty face.” James wants to say that 5 year olds don’t care about pretty faces, especially not ones with full bottom lips and glasses marks on the bridge of their noses. 

Q never gets jealous. 

And that makes James try even harder. 

“I’m turning off comms now, 007,” it’s a threat, an idle one. Q would lose his job if he actually did that but it makes James smile all the same. The woman practically purrs and James slides his hand up her arm. He forgets the name he’s using right now, it’s not important, but he kisses the woman, imagines faint rasp of stubble under his palms instead, and those ridiculous curls through his fingers. 

There’s a heavy sigh through his ear piece, but James can hear the smile under it. 

“Just you wait till you get back,” it’s another idle threat and James suppresses his own laugh as the woman’s dress pools at her feet. 

…

“You broke it,” it’s not a question. Q cradles the pistol in his hands like James just handed him a dead kitten instead of a broken weapon. 

“I did,” James replies, leaning against the door frame to Q’s lab. 

“What is wrong with you?” Q looks up from the pieces in his hands.

“Childhood trauma, inability to commit, lack of remorse…the list is endless Q,” Q scowls at James’s smirk. James pushes himself off from the door frame. He’s blissfully injury free this time, except a dull ache in his jaw from a punch and Q’s scowl melts away as he gets closer. He places the pistol on the counter and one hand goes to his skinny hip as the other pushes his glasses further up his nose. 

“If it helps I was thinking about you the whole time,” James says and Q snorts in a very un-Q like manner. 

“The whole time you smashed the thing into pieces? I don’t know whether to take that as a compliment of not,” Q’s eyebrow quirks over the line of his glasses as he flicks a gaze from the broken pistol to James’s face. “Do you have any idea how long this took me?” Q asks. 

“I have a vague notion,” James picks up a piece and idly rolls it around his hand. “If it helps, it felt good in my hands,” Q looks up again and plucks the broken piece from James’s hands with a raised eyebrow. His fingers trail across James’s palm. 

“I do believe you are flirting with me, 007,” he says, all fake charm and innocence when yesterday he raked his nails down James’s back and whispered filth into his ears. 

“I don’t need to flirt with you anymore,” James replies, fingers skating over the inside of Q’s wrist. To an outsider, Q would look calm, unflappable and only slightly curious at James’s gesture. But James sees the flicker in his eyes, the twitch of his jaw muscles and how his fingers almost curl inwards, towards James’s hand. 

“No you’re probably right,” he replies and smoothly pulls his hand away from James. 

“Your place or mine,” James arches an eyes to go along with the terrible line and Q rolls his eyes, pushes his glasses up his nose with his little finger and sighs heavily. 

“You really are a terrible human being, 007,” he says, picking up a tiny screw driver and pulling a fixed magnifying glass over the remnants of his work. James leans forward, hands bracketed around Q, licks at the shell of Q’s ear. 

“I know,” he breathes and Q leans back slightly into him for a second before elbowing him in the ribs. 

“Go away Bond, I have work to do, no thanks to you,” there’s no heat in his words but James backs away regardless. “Oh and Bond?” Q calls, his head still bent over his magnifying glass, “your place.” 

…

 

“Bond… _Bond_ ,” Q sounds worried and James coughs up the last of the water in his lungs, heaves a breath in. “For goodness sake, Bond, report.” 

“Careful Q,” he gasps, his throat sore and tender, “you almost sound like you care.” 

Q snorts into his ear. 

“You’re wearing a highly expensive piece of kit, 007, I would hate it to go missing,” he replies and James has to laugh, although it hurts. 

“Liar,” James mutters, hauling himself to his feet. His suits ruined, constricting where the wet material clings to his skin. He knows the whole of Q branch is listening in, but he doesn’t care, not when he hears the tiny hitch in Q’s breathing, the one that James has become painfully familiar with. It’s the _thank God you’re alive_ hitch. 

“Field work is a young man’s game,” Q had said last time he came home, aching and exhausted and wanting nothing but Q’s hair under his hands. James had pretended to be offended. But he never feels as old as he does just after he nearly dies. Q’s talking again though, taking his mind off the ache in his lungs, guiding James to relative safety. It’s Q’s voice that makes him feel better, clipped, yet soft in his ear, practically thick with emotion and unsaid things. Things that remain unsaid even when James is home and buried so deep inside Q that he doesn’t know where he ends and Q begins. Because they don’t do that easy sharing of emotions. Neither of them. 

“Do try to get home safely,” Q mutters, the irritation in his voice is forced and James smiles despite his growing exhaustion. “I would hate to lose all that equipment.” 

“Roger, Q.” 

…

The flat’s dark, James hasn’t yet called it _their_ flat, it’s Q’s, or the flat but James spends more time there when in England than anywhere else. He knows every nook and cranny, every hiding place for pieces of tech that Q doesn’t want James to find yet. He knows how Q looks sprawled out of his bed, blinds still open and orange street lights glaring in through the window. The flat’s dark, but James sidesteps Q’s bag, because it’s always just dumped by the door. 

He steps over the loose floorboard and makes his way to the small but well stocked kitchen. The tap is outrageously loud in the quiet and James winces as he pours a glass of water. 

“What time is it?” Q appears in the doorway, hair even more messy than normal, and one hand’s rubbing sleep from his eyes. Eyes that are squinting against the light and sleep, blissfully glasses free. 

“3am,” James replies, guilt washing over him as Q yawns and looks like a ten year old. James leans back against the counter and waits for Q to come to him. 

He doesn’t have to wait long. 

“How long have you been back?” Q makes his way across the kitchen and presses his forehead to James’s chest, his hands warm on James’s hips. James lifts his own hands and winds his fingers through Q’s hair. 

“A couple of hours,” James mutters, tugging on Q’s hair and lifting his face to James’s, he leans forward and brushes his lips across Q’s. He tastes of sleep and faintly of tea and toothpaste, “had to speak to M before I came over,” he says the words into Q’s mouth and Q’s fingers tighten against his hips. 

“He made me go home,” Q says as way of explanation as to why Q wasn’t there waiting for him at MI6. James tugs on his hair again, tips his head back and presses a kiss to his chin. 

“And you mean you couldn’t stay awake to give me the welcome I deserve?” James asks and Q pulls back, squints at him and digs his fingers into James’s hips. 

“After the mess you caused in Kathmandu?” James winces as he remembers and kisses Q, a hint of tongue that has the Quartermaster groaning low in the back of his throat. 

“You love it when I make a mess,” James mutters, hands sliding from Q’s hair, down the curve of his skull, thumbs slipping down the tendon in the side of Q’s neck, “it gives your life meaning…purpose.” 

“No,” Q rolls his neck against James’s touch, “you just like to think that,” his hands slide around James’s waist, dip into his suit trousers, short nails scratching lightly, “makes you feel less guilty when you break my things.” 

James spins, presses Q back into the counter and rolls his hips lazily once against Q’s. The resulting moan is enough to make his skin itch with want. 

“Let’s go and see I can break your bed,” he tugs on the waistband on Q’s pyjama bottoms and Q comes willingly, albeit with a long suffering smile. 

“That’s the best you’ve got, 007?” He asks, sounding more awake than two minutes ago. 

“It’s 3 am, of course it’s the best I’ve got.” 

…

“To what do I owe the pleasure of…this,” James waves his hand in Q’s direction and Q bites on his bottom lip, his hand drawing up against his dick. 

Q’s all sharp lines and thin skin, defined muscle and skinny hips. There’s a sheen of a sweat across his skin, messy hair plastered to his forehead and James leans against the door frame and watches as Q’s legs fall open, pale flawless skin put on show as Q twists his hand around himself. 

“You didn’t break anything this time,” Q says, voice catching every now and then as his hand moves around himself. The muscles of his chest ripple under his thin skin. Q may be skinny, a lithe frame on small bones, but under that skin is well defined muscle, that practically vibrates with hidden strength. He’s skinny, not emaciated. “I thought you deserved a little…encouragement to behave next time.” 

“So this is positive reinforcement of my good behaviour?” James asks, his eyes falling to Q’s hand, the long fingers wrapped around his own dick. Q runs his thumb across the top, pulls it away and a line of precome follows his thumb, glistens in the flat’s half light, then snaps. 

“Bond,” Q’s tongue darts out, pink and wet, swipes across his lower lip and James swallows, resists the urge to run his hands down his chest to his own dick, straining in his boxers. “Do come over here.” 

It’s something that Q can still sound so clipped and upright naked with his dick in his hand and a flush across his chest and cheeks. But he manages it and James can’t do anything except push himself off the door frame. 

“Is that an order?” 

Q shakes his head but the look in his eyes says yes it is an order. One that James can’t help but obey. 

James sheds his jacket, the tie follows, pools on the floor as he makes his way across to the bed where Q runs his hand up the length of himself. James’s hands itch with the need to touch him, to remember that this job bought him something else other than solitude and death. He undoes his trousers, toes off his shoes and steps out of the trousers and kneels over Q, runs a hand down the centre of his chest. 

A breath of noise escapes Q’s lips, one that could sound like “missed you” if James listens carefully enough. But they don’t do that, they don’t need to. James knows Q misses him when he’s away, just as Q knows that James tries not to miss Q’s warm hands. James spans his hands out against Q’s ribs, fingers slotting between the bones and Q’s hand falls from his dick, and he runs both up James’s arms. His fingers still on a scar, jagged and raised and James leans down and kisses him hard. He tastes of his usual tea, a hint of toothpaste but all Q. 

“Show me that you missed me,” Q says, breathless and quiet against James’s lips and James covers Q’s body with his own, reaches down and tugs Q’s leg around him. He drives his hips down, Q’s dick sliding against his stomach. 

James does miss him, he always does, even with his voice a constant in his ear, he misses the warmth of Q beside him, the way Q will look up from his laptop and smile slowly, the way he pushes his glasses up his nose with his little finger. He misses him, he never meant to, but god help him he misses him. 

So he shows Q just how much. 

…

James knows the women don’t bother Q. They never had. It’s just part of the job, a means to an end. And if Q listens to James fucking another nameless woman, James’s grunts loud in his ear, and if he gets half hard just hearing that then that’s no one’s business but James and Q’s. 

It’s the men Q worried about. And James comes back to England, and tries to ignore the knowing looks from Eve and the rest of MI6 until he sees Q. Shoulders full of tension and mouth a hard line. 

He never says anything, he doesn’t have to. They can read each other like books by now. But James knows. Q doesn’t let him touch him for hours, dodging his touches like they hurt when all James wants to do is show Q that its only Q, the others don’t matter, don’t mean a thing. They can’t read James like Q can, they cant give him the things Q can. 

He cant say anything though, because “they don’t mean anything,” would be met with a terse “I know” and that would be that. Words are useless when it comes to Q. 

James wrestles Q out of his lab a good number of hours after he gets back to MI6, practically drags him out regardless of the others around and Q’s silent the whole way back to his flat. Q doesn’t like to be touched when he’s like this, but James has had enough. He pushes Q against the door, brackets his hands around his head and pins him in place. He’s stronger and Q knows better than to struggle. His eyes are defiant though, staring up at James. 

“Here?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest, putting a barrier between them. “You want to do this here? In the hallway?” 

“I would have done it in MI6 if I thought you would have listened,” James says back, his thumb brushing against Q’s neck. Q leans into it automatically, forgets he’s meant to be annoyed and clamps his eyes shut for a second. 

“I always listen,” he says, looking back at James and James gets that there’s more than one conversation they’re having right now. 

“It’s a job,” James says and Q’s mouth hardens. 

“I know,” he pushes at James’s chest, and James steps back, gives him the space he’s asking for. “I know.” 

Q turns and opens the flat door and James wants to tug on the curls at the back of his neck. 

“I hate that other people get to touch you,” Q mutters, his head down as he braces his arms against the counter in the tiny galley kitchen. James often wonders why Q doesn’t move, but this flat is so perfectly Q that James never voices that opinion. Q’s shoulders are still tense and James wraps his arms around Q slim waist, buries his head into the ridiculous curls. 

“Other people will always touch me,” he says and spins Q around. Q’s got his lip caught between his teeth and James tugs on his chin. Q’s lip slips from between his teeth. “My life’s not my own, Q, you know that,” he says and Q frowns, anger gone now but deep seated resignation slowly creeping into its place. 

“I do,” he sighs, and fingers at the button on James’s suit trousers, “but I wish it was mine,” the words are quiet but strong and James lifts Q’s chin. 

“It is, as much as I can give, it’s yours,” he kisses Q hard, pushes him back against the counter, hips pressing hard together and Q whines into his mouth, pushes back like the equal he is. “You stupid genius,” James mutters and Q makes a noise in the back of his throat. “How do you not know that?” 

“I do I just…” Q tugs on James’s belt loops, pulls him closer, impossibly so, “forget sometimes.” 

“Stop forgetting,” James wraps his hands around Q’s face, presses him thumbs under Q’s chin and mouths at his Adam’s apple. “I need you to remember…for both of us.” 

Q’s hands find their way into his short hair, nails scraping over his scalp, he drags James’s face upwards and breathes “ok” into his mouth.


End file.
